


Sugar and Salt

by hautesauce



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Destiel - Freeform, Emotionally Hurt Castiel, Kissing, M/M, Salty Castiel, Sam's around here somewhere, deancas-sweetheart, goddamnit dean, when I said use your words I meant use good words
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-11
Updated: 2017-02-11
Packaged: 2018-09-23 15:02:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9662477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hautesauce/pseuds/hautesauce
Summary: Dean thoughtlessly calls Castiel a pet name one too many times. Two can play at that game.Salty!Cas and Oblivious!Dean star in the Deancas-Sweetheart Challenge!





	

**Author's Note:**

> I'm destielmixtape on Tumblr.

“Hey, sweetheart, if you’re goin’ to the kitchen, will you start the coffee pot?” Dean asks Castiel as he shuffles through the main room of the bunker in his grey robe, grinding the dust from his eyes with finger and thumb.

Just like that.  _ Hey sweetheart _ , like it’s nothing. An afterthought. Another offhand comment, like “sunshine”, an endearment that is less of an endearment and more like a diminishing jab. A pet name, in the most literal sense.

“I am not your ‘sweetheart,” spits Castiel, perhaps a bit too gruffly. But what does it matter any more? He’s pined enough, sacrificed enough, given up everything again and again for Dean Winchester. Most days he can pass through the same spaces, talk, joke, all without incident. All without the red hot flare of longing firing up through every nerve ending, doomed to go unrequited. Most days. Except when Dean says something like this. 

_ Sweetheart _ . 

How something so warm and benign can cut so rough and deep is a mystery Castiel still can’t solve.  _ Two can play at that game _ , he thinks bitterly.

“Hey, pal,” Dean replies sharply. “What crawled up your ass this morning?”

Castiel turns, cutting eyes under furrowed brows aimed straight at Dean. “Nothing is in my ass, Dean,” he gravels, followed by a nearly audible rolling of the eyes. He sighs as he turns and heads into the kitchen. 

A few minutes later, Dean catches a whiff of an aggressively strong brew of coffee. He closes the game of Words With Friends he’s playing when he hears a beep from the kitchen, followed by the thumping of mugs and the clattering of flatware. Out walks Castiel, two mugs in hand, face returned once again to its normal, impassive state. He sets a mug in front of Dean, then one down on the table for himself. Dean reaches for his coffee but then stops to eye Castiel who is taking off his coat. He carefully hangs it over the back of the chair, then goes to remove his blazer. His movements are no-nonsense, his gaze staring out into the middle distance. Once the blazer is gone, his hands move to his tie. He loosens it, slides it off, balls it up, and tosses onto the table.

“Uh, buddy, whatcha doing over there?” probes Dean, one eyebrow exploring new parts of his forehead.

“It’s not of import,  _ babe _ ,” spits Castiel as he pops open the top two buttons of his dress shirt before sliding into his chair and chasing his cup of coffee down with a resolute, confident hand. 

Dean leans forward and grabs his own coffee from the table, eyeing his friend in puzzlement. He takes a sip and chokes before swallowing.

“Jesus, Cas! What did you do to my coffee? Tastes like diabetes!”

“What, you don’t like it?” Castiel says, voice grating with sarcasm. “I just thought I’d add a little sugar for my sugar baby.”

Dean chokes again. “What did you just call me?”

“Call you when?” Castiel replies dryly.

“Just now! The pet names! Babe! Sugar--Jesus Cas!” Dean is visibly flustered, and Castiel can see a blush surely creeping up Dean’s neck.

Castiel presses the flats of his hands onto the table to rise to standing. “I take it you do not like your nicknames?” he says, low voice teasing at something unnamed, unrecognized. He walks over and leans down to Dean, propping himself up with both hands so as to best secure the man’s eyes, flickering an insecure malachite.

“No, Cas, I mean--” Dean stutters, searching for some arrangement of words to help him make sense of the conversation.

“So, you like your pet names?” Castiel asks, gravelly voice almost sultry. Dean knows it is a hypothetical question, but he opens his mouth to respond all the same.

“Shhhh,” hushes Castiel, moving in closer, “don’t worry yourself over it, my little honey bee.”

Dean’s eyes bug out of his head as he leans back in his chair, flush arriving at his cheeks and taking up residence. His mouth is suddenly sapped of all moisture; he’s never seen his friend this way, behave this way. “Cas,” he mumbles thickly, “are you okay?”

Castiel pushes down and toward Dean, not relinquishing his gaze for a moment. “Don’t you mean ‘sweetheart’?” he purrs.

Dean blinks rapidly, trying to telegraph words he cannot find. “I’m, I’m sorry, Cas,” he stammers weakly. “I didn’t, didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”

Castiel deepens his stare, voice raw. “Then why do you say things like that? Call me names?”

“They’re, they’re just nicknames, Cas! Endearments!” Dean runs a hand through his hair, goes to take a swig of coffee and thinks better of it. “I say ‘em, I say ‘em ‘cause I like you, man!”

“You don’t call Sam, ‘sunshine’ or ‘sweetheart’,” Castiel says after a slow blink, relaxing his muscles slightly but still down in Dean’s eyeline. 

“That’s Sam! Sam is different! I mean, it’s Sam! He’s not my, he’s not--”

“Your lap dog? Your little pet?” interrupts Castiel darkly. 

Then Dean sees it, the fire in Castiel’s eyes flickers once, twice, and then goes out. The angel’s eyes drop to the table with a sigh and he pushes himself up and away. Dean’s hand darts out and grabs Castiel’s arm.

“Cas, don’t,” he says as he tries to pull away. Dean rises, hand clamped firmly around the angel’s wrist. “Cas, look at me.”

Castiel stops, but doesn’t turn to meet Dean’s gaze.

“Cas, man, you aren’t my pet,” says Dean, voice sad and edged with shame.

Castiel does not speak for a moment, then, in barely a whisper asks, “What am I?”

Dean, still holding firmly to Castiel’s wrist, walks around to coax his friend’s eyes from the floor.

“You’re my angel,” Dean whispers. With that, Castiel’s eyes fly up and are caught, held securely by Dean’s softness. Castiel notes the flush in Dean’s cheeks, the smattering of freckles across his nose infuriatingly endearing.

Castiel’s head tips ever so slightly, eyes searching for answers but returning with only questions. “Just your angel?” he asks hoarsely.

Dean swallows, words nearly catching in his throat. “My sunshine, too.”

“Dean…?” Castiel whispers his name like a warning.

Dean’s hand travels down Castiel’s wrist, fingers tangling together, and his other hand follows suit. He steps in closer, chests mere inches apart. Castiel can feel the heat coming off of him, can smell sleep in his hair, almost taste the saccharine coffee on his breath. He aches.

“Dean,” he whispers mournfully, “I am sorry. I should not have teased you. This… this won’t work, you--”

Dean doesn’t let him finish, and instead stops his mouth with a kiss. His searing flush is catching; Castiel feels a fire scorch across his own chest as he relinquishes the last remnants of his anger. As he holds Dean’s hands tighter, his will dissolves, and he lets himself be kissed within an inch of his life. Warm lips and stubble, shy tongues and fluttering eyelashes, everything Castiel has ever wanted and more is now his, finally. He breaks away with a gasp, blue eyes wanting. 

“Dean,” he whispers, “please say this is real.”

“Shhh, sweetheart,” he whispers against Castiel’s mouth. “It’s real.”


End file.
